Monday, July 21, 2008

A line of fish hangs from his handAnd reaches to yours.You caught them;He gutted them.We will all eat them.We will look later at the picture someone tookOf you both standing there connectedBy flesh and bone.We will look at the picture and rememberSimilar sticky hot days:When we watched the night sun color the mountains purple,When the watermelon's drip stuck to our kneesAnd clung to the spaces between our fingers,When with our feet bare against the grass,We swayed as we gazed up at the coming-out stars--A line of hope from heaven to our hearts.